Can't Help Falling (Sweater Weather, #3)

by Courtney Walsh

Fictional men are always better than the real ones. Always. Probably because they’re written by women.

I want to crawl into a hole and stay hidden until hell freezes over or Leonardo DiCaprio dates someone his own age, whichever comes first. Probably the hell thing.

“You’re going to grill me, aren’t you?” She folds her hands on her lap. “Yes.” “There’s no escape?” “No, there is not.”

“Honey, did you see? Owen’s here!” “Yes, Mom, he’s six-foot-two and kind of hard to miss.”

Like Julia Roberts, I want the fairy tale—okay, maybe not her profession, but the fire escape scene? Flowers and a public profession of love in the streets? Absolutely!

Don’t you deserve someone who occasionally cooks you dinner and brings you flowers—or better yet, coffee—just because?